Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  I stood up abruptly and walked past Joe’s chair, close enough to cause him to lift his hand. He wasn’t quite as drunk as to be unaware of me.

  I calmed down in the ladies’ and returned to see Patsy murmuring in Frank’s ear. Ava must be arriving. She came in, undoing a headscarf, taking it off and shaking out her lustrous jet-black hair to dramatic effect. Frank was on his feet, we all were, and he settled her next to him with such a look on his face: pride, elation, love and concern.

  His emotions were worn on the outside like clothes, but they needed to fit more comfortably. His and Ava’s marriage had been doomed, their personalities just too huge to be cut to size. They would stay friends, I thought, come what may. Neither wanted closure. I saw Frank’s arm was along the bench behind Ava, his laughter was responsively loud as she took centre stage, swearing cheerfully, downing a Jack Daniel’s in one; he adored her.

  Gloria was a long-time trusted confidante of Frank’s and an objective friend. She’d told us that Ava had gone to live in Spain after the divorce and set up with Ernest Hemingway. They’d had a passionate year together and he’d taught her to love bullfighting, although perhaps too well, since she’d left him for one of its stars, Luis Miguel Dominguin.

  Ava herself was a star like no other. I could only stare with open-mouthed fascination at her wondrously arched eyebrows, vermillion lips and the alluring cleft to her chin that exquisitely defined her individuality. She was in a black dress with lacy, unlined sleeves, drinking neat bourbon and easily keeping pace with Frank.

  ‘Are we making a night of it, honey?’ she drawled, holding his eyes. ‘Doin’ the town?’

  ‘Painting it as red as your lips,’ he said, bending to light her cigarette. She threw back her head and exhaled. No one could take their eyes off her. ‘How’s the bullfighter?’ Frank grinned; he was all flashing white teeth and tension.

  ‘Fighting, how else? Luis is a toreador in the sack. It’s been fucking madness, crazy stuff, but it’s winding down. Had to, I guess. I needed a big fat slug of the city.’ She touched Frank’s cheek. ‘So tell me, I hear plenty going on with you and Marilyn?’

  ‘That dame needs looking after,’ he said, ‘no kidding. Hey, what’s with these empty glasses? Patsy, sack the staff!’ He needed the tableful of people, friends, but it was quite a strain to be party to his stressed-out emotion. Ava was above showing it; she couldn’t care how rude she was, how wild, how pissed. She was uncontainable, a Colossus of a personality. We were little timid mice looking on.

  Waiters surrounded us. The booze flowed. Food arrived. Succulent prawns, meatballs in a rich appetising sauce, spicy and thick with tomatoes, crispy zucchini, buttery spinach speckled with garlic. A frothy creamy chocolate pudding followed, Tiramisu. It was new to me and I had to taste it. I’d been eating little, sticking as virtuously close to the protein diet as possible, and gooey puddings were taboo, a real fall from grace. Plunging in my spoon I felt as guilty as a schoolboy dipping into a porn magazine. The Tiramisu, heavily laced with alcohol, was sinfully, deliciously exotic.

  It was well after one when we left. Sinatra and his party rolling into Peppermint Lounge caused a stir. The place was packed with everyone Twisting, crushed up together closer than sardines. No one took much notice for long; there wasn’t room.

  ‘The Twist has really caught on,’ Gloria shouted into my ear. ‘Peppermint Lounge was just a sweaty little den and now it’s the buzziest place in town. All the city’s ravers keep pouring in; it’s amazing how they’re completely hooked on this new dance.’

  They were certainly Twisting like crazy. Someone quipped that we should be drinking screwdrivers. But the Jack Daniel’s kept coming, chinking with ice . . .

  I was still focused on Joe’s straying hand. Did he have other women as well as Alicia? Was that better or worse? Equally bad, but either way I felt sure Alicia was more to him than a casual affair. And if he did play around, did she actually know – or even care? She was a sophisticated, heartless bitch. Somehow I didn’t feel tearful; cut-up and bitter, yes, but Gil Foreman was softening the fall. That look had caused more than a momentary frisson. It lived on in my mind. I wanted to see him again.

  A kind of defiance was building up in me. A dangerous feeling, but there must be more to life than being walked over. Was I falling out of love with Joe? The thought sobered me into a state of grim determination. I tried hard to concentrate on Joe’s specialness. I remembered our wedding day when my father had trodden on my full-length veil. The tiara I’d worn, borrowed from one of Joe’s friends, had been askew in every photograph.

  Joe had made it a positive highlight. So much better, he said, it stopped the pictures looking all cornball and sugar candy. At his best Joe was compellingly loveable and fun to be with – but was that side of him a thing of the past, gone forever more?

  Chapter 8

  ‘Miss Forbes? I’m Jackson, ma’am, Mr Lindsay’s driver. You had a nice flight? Let me take those. The car’s right across in the parking lot.’

  ‘Thanks. Good to meet you, Jackson,’ I said, giving him my best smile as he slung Daisy’s heavily filled laptop bag onto his shoulder and wheeled my small carry-on case. ‘It’s great to be here.’ A porter followed with the main luggage. I’d grown used to the perks of wealth, thanks to poor dear Clive, but porters were new to Daisy.

  ‘I’d been dreading lugging those hefty cases ourselves,’ she said, looking back. ‘Such luxury!’

  ‘Stick around.’ I fixed her with a loaded look. Would porters be enough to keep Daisy from doing a flit home? On the plane she’d swung between a buzzy thrill at the Club Class, New World adventure and looking physically ill from her private angst. Simon was sexually dominating and an unpleasant bully, but he had her in a pincer hold.

  Warren Lindsay’s black Mercedes purred along the highways. I’d taken to Jackson on sight; he had a distinguished air about him, a natural courtesy. And albeit elderly, he drove confidently and fast, which was cheering; I’d always found the speed limit in the States frustratingly low. I leaned closer behind his solid grizzled head to speak to him. ‘About an hour from here, would you say?’

  ‘Maybe a little less, ma’am. We should be there just on six, I reckon.’

  The Mercedes sped on, eating up the miles, and I dropped off. Opening an eye, I saw Daisy was bent low over her mobile, but she looked up with an exhilarated shine. ‘I’m terribly excited and nervous,’ she said. I felt quite nervous, too.

  I knew Long Island and its smart village resorts, called the Hamptons, of old, and reaching Southampton enjoyed the feeling of familiarity. We crossed Main Street, the heart of the place that had a sort of square, slightly self-conscious chic about it, a sense of belonging to its summer regulars, and drove on down residential streets that led to the coast.

  Jackson slowed in front of a pair of immense wrought-iron gates, curved at the top and incorporating a central scrolled design of Warren’s initials. They opened silently as the car approached. The house name was painted on one of a pair of supporting square white pillars: Great Maples – our new home from home.

  Warren Lindsay was on the doorstep to greet us, casually dressed in mimosa-yellow Bermudas and a short-sleeved white linen shirt. His legs were tanned, his hair more uniformly grey; I felt a small snaking of adrenaline. He pumped my hand, smiling from me to Daisy, pumped hers, welcomed us and asked after the flight.

  ‘It’s an honour to have you as my house guests,’ he said, with the sort of grave, old-fashioned formality, characteristic of some Americans of his kind. ‘My luck was in when you accepted the commission and I’m very grateful. I hope you’ll both manage to relax as well, though, while you’re here and feel right at home – even as you pull this tired old place apart.’ He gave me a long look before turning to Daisy, as though anxious not to exclude her. ‘Susannah has told me how pleased she is to have you along – and I get to be lucky twice over!’

  His eyes rested long on Daisy as well, which made her blush and become
even more effusive.

  ‘You have the most magnificent, sensational house, and seeing it for real after all those brilliant photographs – I mean, actually to be here . . .’ She burbled on while Warren looked flattered and pleased.

  ‘Now I’m sure you both want to rest and freshen up,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was about to go change myself, but you made such good time. First, come meet Martha who does the cooking, and Luisa, my maid, who will show you to your rooms. She’ll help with anything you need, never minds staying late, and Martha lives in so there’s always someone right on hand. Martha’s an absolute pearl, an excellent cook; you’ll enjoy her repertoire, I know – but tell her any of your special requests, of course. Now what shall we say? Meet around eight for a little light supper?’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘but really just a snack before the time change catches up with us.’

  The Hamptons had their own personalities and I’d filled Daisy in, coming over. Easthampton attracted the celebrities, Bridgehampton was new money and Southampton was old – and in more ways than money; some of the immense houses of the famously exclusive, ocean-hugging Gin Lane dated back to the 1880s. They were seriously gigantic properties, called ‘cottages’ locally – though not euphemistically. It was more just a case of quaint American phraseology.

  The sweep of Gin Lane encompassed a peaceful lake, opposite which was the staid and respectable Beach Club. Its members were a select band, proudly aware of belonging to a group to whom life had been kind. People had to wait years and go through endless hoops – mainly the dislikes and foibles of old-stagers – even to be considered, let alone deemed appropriate and allowed to join. Warren was a member, not surprisingly, and since Great Maples was just off Gin Lane, walking distance from the Beach Club, we would potter up there often, I was sure.

  Luisa, the maid, settled me into a spacious, richly carpeted bedroom. It had a desk, a round table with potted orchids and a piled fruit bowl, walk-in hanging cupboards. It looked out over the neat lawns, tennis court and lavish patio of the photographs, and standing at the bay window, absorbing it all, my modernising urges were to the fore. The house, whose architecture hinted at Lutyens, had square bays and sloping roofs that presided over a basement and two floors. It needed to shake off its shackles of convention, the intercommunicating reception rooms, safe chintzes and European landscape paintings, the high surround of drear box hedging, immaculately clipped. I wanted to lift ceilings, add fanlights, do away with walls; cover the remaining ones with contemporary paintings by the American artists I most admired. Daisy was going to be kept busy.

  My ideas for Great Maples had begun as a jumble, a shaken kaleidoscope, but now I could see the final pattern. It would be a revolutionary makeover, lighten Warren’s bank balance and be too innovative for some of Southampton’s stuffiest notables, yet a talking point at the dinner tables, I felt sure.

  A rest made all the difference. Showered, dressed in a pair of tight white jeans and sapphire silk top, I went downstairs feeling good, pleased with my smoother-looking face, thanks to Angelica, and more confident, ready for a little flirt or whatever was Warren’s game.

  He was alone in the sitting room, leaning against a sepia marble fireplace. A huge vase of flowers, stiffly arranged with spikes of delphiniums, filled the grate. He was wearing pink summer trousers now and a loose linen shirt that looked fittingly expensive. Coming forward to greet me, he held aloft a tall misted glass topped with a slice of lemon. ‘Join me in a gin fizz? Or would you like champagne? There’s anything else as well, of course.’

  ‘I don’t often drink spirits, but that gin fizz looks great. Luisa’s whisked away armfuls of creased clothes, she’s been a marvellous help.’

  ‘That’s good; you’re in charge now here, remember. I’ll come and go, but I promise to make myself scarce and not interfere. It really is a delight to see you again, Susannah, and looking even more lovely than I recall.’ Warren brought over my drink and his smile had a provocative glint. ‘And after all the travelling too . . . I can’t thank you enough for taking this on, I’m impressed with my powers of persuasion!’ He held my eyes, only letting go and turning to the door as we heard Daisy’s heels tapping across the polished hall.

  She came in looking shy and uncertain, arresting in a short white dress with a dizzy print of red poppies. Warren beamed. ‘All well, Daisy? Beats me how you can both look so fresh and well after that flight.’ He glanced back to include me. ‘We’re drinking gin fizz. It’s mostly soda and crushed ice: can I tempt you?’

  ‘Easily,’ Daisy laughed, looking more relaxed and assured. ‘And everything’s fabulous, thanks. I feel as if I’ve stepped into the pages of a Scott Fitzgerald novel.’

  ‘Well, you have the name and look the part . . .’ Warren knew how to flatter.

  We chatted on – a little formally at first, though the drinks soon burnished our conversation with a sparkier sheen. Martha brought in canapés – roulades of asparagus and skewered prawns with a dip that she said was mango and basil. She was a tall, thin, studious-looking woman, more like a historian or lecturer, yet from her obvious pride and involvement, I felt she must have found her niche and be a natural cook. She soon murmured to Warren that dinner was ready, and we wandered through into the dining room.

  It was a depressingly elaborate room, too formal even for city living. A long mahogany table laden with silver, a pair of ornamental pheasants, curly-handled sauceboats, huge candelabra; three silver placemats as well that looked lost, set miles apart.

  ‘May we move up closer together?’ I suggested. ‘It’ll be easier to talk, and I need more of a feel for your lifestyle, Warren. There is so much I’d like to ask. For instance, this is a rather formal dining room and it would help to know if you give many large dinner parties, that sort of thing.’

  ‘God no, none of that now. Willa – that’s my ex-wife, Daisy – was the one for entertaining. She never stopped – lavish parties, people for drinks, and we often sat down twelve to dinner at weekends. Martha says she’s under-employed these days.’

  I’d begun to shift the place mats down to one end of the table, but Martha melted into the room and took over. From her body language she seemed not to mind my interference; it was a good sign. We needed to be able to rub along well together while Warren was away in the city during the week.

  Martha had made a supper dish of ravioli filled with lightly spiced crab in a piquant tomato sauce. It was all delectably good.

  ‘So back to my lifestyle,’ Warren said, once we’d exhausted our compliments. ‘It couldn’t be quieter. I lead a hermit’s life now, it’s a hell of a lot more peaceful.’ He gave a curt laugh, more of a dragged-out snarl, as if control of his resentment had snagged and unravelled like a pulled thread. The bitterness over Willa was well dug in.

  ‘Willa had the Long Island crowd in her palm,’ he continued. ‘She was queen bee, high priestess of the bitching and partying set, which is all the wives do out here all summer while their poor-sod hardworking husbands swelter in Manhattan earning a crust to pay the checks.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said, thinking how similarly bitter Willa must feel, ‘I had an August in the city once when I was modelling, and those same “poor-sod” husbands spent all their time chasing after any female in sight.’

  ‘Well, can you blame them in your case?’ Warren looked pleased with himself, as though feeling that was one up to him. ‘Now I have a favour to ask. Southampton has a grand Benefit ball in a couple of weeks; it’s the event of the summer, always well supported, and it would give me great pleasure if you’d both come as my guests. My stock would go through the roof, of course, escorting two beautiful women – not that the gossip won’t have got started way before then. Your arrival is going to cause quite a stir.’

  ‘I’m sure we’d love to come, wouldn’t we, Daisy?’ She nodded energetically. ‘Can you fill us in a bit more, though?’ I asked. ‘Explain what it’s in aid of and whether it’s a dinner, a full-blown dance – the form?’
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  ‘And what people will be wearing,’ Daisy added, looking alarmed – worrying, I suspected, about keeping her end up with the very rich.

  ‘Oh, it’s a dance, the Red Tide Benefit Ball, and called that because there’s a sort of red tide that sweeps into the bays every so often, discolouring the waters and killing the fish in their thousands. It’s a rampant form of algae, phytoplanktons, that creates terrible problems. The fish are washed ashore, no one can swim, the beaches stink; waterfront properties are unrentable and popular bays like the Peconic, Shinnecock and Gardiner’s really suffer. It’s a generic problem with no real solution. It goes as mysteriously as it comes,’ Warren said, ‘but strangles the clam and bay scallop industry, and the fishermen really struggle. So the Benefit’s in aid of the Baymen’s Association and we locals dig in deep.

  ‘And as for what to wear, Daisy,’ he gave her a saucy look, ‘it’s all about outdoing everyone else: big, big rocks, the full gold lamé, everything you can throw at it – and not only the women. I’ll be among the restrained few. Probably wear a blazer and light trousers; no one wears black tie out here any more.’

  ‘Do people know you’re redoing the house?’ Daisy asked, looking more alarmed than ever. ‘The reason we’re here?’

  ‘No, I haven’t talked about it, in case of a change of plan. I’d explain when introducing you, of course, but as I said, the gossip will already be well under way. Someone will have seen the car returning with you both in it, and Tom Horne will have made sure word gets round.’

  ‘He’s the village grapevine?’

  ‘You can say that again!’

  Martha came in with seconds of ravioli and a chicory, cherry tomato and rocket salad. She returned with a platter of Italian and French cheeses in perfect squidgy condition, with huge amber Muscat grapes. We were in for a summer of good living.